


A Scent for Apathy

by Reveri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A time travel fix-it fic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Slytherin Hermione Granger, so she does everything to prevent their deaths in the future, where Hermione is unwilling to negotiate the lives of those lost in the War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25504684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reveri/pseuds/Reveri
Summary: Hermione goes back in time and incites the greatest reform the wizarding world has ever known. But first, she must solve the mystery of her failed Amortentia brew, lest she get a Troll mark on the road to redemption of all wizardkind. "This can't possibly be right, sir. I followed all the instructions," she muttered. "My potion smells like death." Time turner fix-it fic. HG/TR.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, tomione
Comments: 30
Kudos: 97





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Another Tomione fix-it fic because I need that in my life rn. I was drabbling and just kinda went with it. So yeah. This might be a three- or four-shot. Tell me what you think, yes? Reveri x

_1998_

* * *

Hermione tapped her nails on the edge of the armchair as she watched Kingsley Shacklebolt deliver his inauguration speech on the Ministry podium from a few feet away. Not impatiently, but slowly, deliberately, just like how her eyes scanned the crowd of wizardfolk in their cloaks and pointed hats, all dressed to the occasion of the formal rebirth of their world after The Dark Lord's downfall. She sat alongside Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, and other surviving, venerated combatants, war heroes just like her.

"My good people, today you have entrusted me with the office to lead the future of the wizarding world towards a new magical society where strength and goodness will triumph indubitably, a new land where darkness and corruption will never prevail…"

Hermione's mouth pinched into a tight frown as she saw the equally optimistic crowd of people respond to the new Minister in cheers and cries of victory.

Someone to her left grasped her hand tightly, and Hermione paused, turning her head to meet Neville's gaze. He had a somber expression as he stared at her, brown eyes dark and glistening with tears that nearly fell.

"Harry should be in this chair instead of me," he said quietly. "And Ron should be sitting right next to you."

"Don't say that, Neville." Hermione heard herself saying. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"You know what I meant, Hermione."

Because Ron had thrown himself into the warpath in an attempt to save Fred from an explosion which ended up killing them both.

Because moments leading to his demise, Voldemort destroyed his last horcrux using a dark curse entwined in green, unforgiving light, and Tom Riddle Jr killed Harry Potter at the expense of his own life.

Because, at the Battle of Hogwarts, The Boy Who Lived had died, and the boys she loved were gone, and The Golden Trio was no more.

"I miss them. I want them here. I mean, _look at them_ , they don't—" Neville's voice broke as he gestured to the crowd assembled before them. Witches and wizards with wide, hopeful eyes as they devoured the Minister's words. "They don't _understand_. Where were they when we needed them? Why is it we're the ones who have to live with losses and scars and nightmares? I didn't do it for them. I did it for my friends and now my f—" Neville hesitated. "My friends…"

_My friends are dead._

Hermione patted his hand twice.

"Yes, Neville," she heard herself say. "I know what you mean."

…

Hermione lived as a war hero. She learned that being one meant all doors were open to her, even the double doors of the Wizengamot. That her words were almost like law, and that for her sacrifices, she would be compensated with bulks of shiny galleons that weighed unusually heavy in her palms. That she was admired, and that her name was enough to clear any roads she wanted to take.

Unobstructed, unquestioned, unbridled.

Hermione felt so, _so_ alone.

…

She gets the idea when Headmistress McGonagall calls on her for some tea and biscuits. She doesn't reject the invitation because it's an excuse to visit Hogwarts after it has been restored. So she pulls herself out of her self-mandated seclusion.

Even after everything, she considers Hogwarts a welcome reprieve.

When the headmistress starts coaxing out Hermione's dark thoughts, she realizes that the old woman is concerned for her. Because the grim, old place she lingered in was a place to fester the memories and ghosts of her past.

Minerva wanted her to _heal._

"If I could turn back the time, to see you all happier and complete…" Minerva murmured wistfully from the rim of her teacup. Hermione, who was swirling her own, eyes downcast, paused. "You were all so young. It wasn't right that we asked so much from you."

Later in the night, before she left, for McGonagall's peace of mind, Hermione faked a smile and a laugh.

…

"Draco, dear," Narcissa muttered to her son when she spotted Hermione's silhouette inside Ollivanders. "Isn't that…?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Yes. It is."

Why was Hermione Granger buying a new wand?

…

"I don't know why you're doing any of this," Draco tells Hermione as he watches the brunette flit from one bookshelf to another in the Malfoy library. He hadn't meant _this_ kind of help when he offered it to her. "But don't make me regret helping you, Granger."

She makes a humming sound in response, and another pleased noise when she pulls a thick, golden book from one of the glass cabinets. His eyes widen.

"Granger, don't tell me you're… Surely not… Are you?"

She turns to him and beams.

"Do you want to hear about it?"

…

Hermione thinks that, maybe, Malfoy isn't so bad. At least not anymore. And if Ron ever found out she thought that, his head would pop with smoke. But she was in a time where Voldemort was dead, and Harry was dead, and Ron was dead, so maybe none of it matters. Not anymore.

Draco doesn't react at first. He lets her words cascade in the silence of the Manor. When he opens his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, his mother's voice beats him to it.

"Miss Granger. I had a feeling you brought trouble with you." Narcissa's cold voice pervaded the library. "Come with me. There is something else you must read."

…

_To the Hermione of the Future,_

_I am hesitant to provide you reassurance with the journey you have chosen to take. After all, you of all people should know that time-travelling is inherently dangerous, and even moreso with the precariousness of your intentions. However, since you are reading this letter, I know there is nothing to say to change your mind, and all I can do is pave the way for you here._

_What I am allowed to tell you are four things: first, that you must ask the Malfoy matriarch for the some clothes and jewelry. Second, that you must bring with you as much galleons as you can. Third, that you must not timetravel until you understand who it is exactly you wish to save._

_And fourth, my name._

_Your good friend,_

_Lyra Malfoy_

_…_

Breathing deep, Hermione asked, "Since when did you have this?"

Nacissa chuckled. "The Malfoys are known to have such extravagant heirlooms, you know. When I received this from the matriarch before me, I was convinced she was being facetious."

"And who… have _you_ read it?"

"Of course not." Narcissa sniffed. "A curse awaits the matriarch who does keep the secret of Lyra Malfoy's letter."

Draco balked. "Does that mean…"

Hermione shrugged. "I guess I really do go to the past after all."

"But I've never heard of a Lyra Malfoy." Draco muttered, a suspicious look thrown in his mother's way.

Narcissa nodded. "Yes. Because according to our family tree, she does not exist."

Hermione hummed.

_…_

She spends an entire week thinking, scribbling names on an old wall at the Grimmauld place. She ends up with more than fifty names after the seventh day, but Harry and Ron's are largest. Dobby. Snape. Luna. Cedric. Her parents weren't dead, but they made it into the list of people she wanted to save anyway.

With all their names in front of her now, Hermione felt much, _much_ lonelier than before.

But who would she choose?

"Lyra Malfoy," she murmured in the darkness. "Who are you?"

…

Another month later, armed with two trunks filled with dresses and baubles, her charmed, limitless purse containing heaps of galleons emptied from her own vault, Hermione Granger donned the gold time turner around her neck and began to turn the dials.

 _One, two, three, four, five, six…_ She turned at each count slowly and surely. _Seven, eight, nine, ten…_

She had a plan.

_Twenty…_

Some parts were still vague, but it would have to do.

_Thirty…_

She could not get this wrong.

_Forty…_

For Harry.

_Fifty…_

The time turner convulsed violently, but Hermione continued to turn the dials still.

_Sixty…_

For Ron.

_Seventy…_

She had one chance.

_Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four…_

Hermione took a deep breath as white light began to emerge from the trinket, and the world spun around her.

_Seventy-five._


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was drabbling again. And now you have part two. We'll take it one shot at a time, yes? Let me know what you think. Reveri x

1943

* * *

The last thing Tom Riddle expected to see at Wool's Orphanage was Armando Dippet.

The headmaster had come in the dead of night. Tom was nearly asleep when hurried voices coming from the living room woke him and concerned him enough to come down and take a peek. Rarely did Mrs. Cole have visitors in the night.

At first, he'd been alarmed. Had his endeavors been uncovered? Which of the boys had betrayed him? Should he run?

And then he saw the petite brunette sitting next to Dippet. Small, pretty enough looking. Unruly curls. Harmless. But most importantly, a witch.

He relaxed.

"Miss Granger was orphaned in the war," he overheard the wizard say to the matron. "She will be attending the same school as Tom this year. She has her own things, but I do hope you'll still look after her, Mrs. Cole. Until we can find a living relative."

"Oh, you poor thing." Mrs. Cole fussed at the anxious-looking girl. "We don't have a free room, but in the meantime, you'll have to use the top bunk in Tom's room."

"That's fine," Dippet assured the newcomer. "Tom's a gentleman. It's only for two weeks until school starts, Miss Granger."

Tom grimaced. He didn't wait to hear the next and ran off to his room in preparation for added occupancy.

At least he wasn't being taken to Azkaban?

…

When Hermione shuffles into her new room at Wool's Orphanage, she doesn't open the lights. The moonlight illuminating the silhouette of the room from the window sufficed, and she could hear the steady breathing of the boy sleeping in the lower bunk.

No way was she going to meet Tom Riddle in the middle of the night and explain everything to him when she was so _exhausted_. She'd leave the most of it to Mrs. Cole in the morning.

Instead, she hefted her luggage onto the top bunk and placed her purse in between the sheets of her thinning pillow. Hooking her thumb on the back of her shoes to remove them, the witch quietly climbed up to her new bed and blinked away at the wetness seeping into her eyes.

_Don't think about your friends, Hermione. They're not here either._

Why did her pillow smell like musk?

…

When Hermione woke, the sun was already peaking and her roommate was calling out her name.

"Miss Granger?" A clearing throat. "Miss Granger."

Her eyes fluttered as she was pulled from slumber, and she pushed herself off from the mattress with a morning scowl.

"I do hope you'll forgive me for waking you, given the night's events," Tom's voice was overflowing with courtesy. "But you must come down for lunch. Dinner isn't much here."

"Oh… Alright." Her voice was hoarse. "Thank you, Mr. Riddle."

"Call me Tom. I'll see you downstairs."

Hermione waited until his footsteps reached the stairs before she let a giggle past her lips.

Was Tom Riddle _already_ playing favors in the pretense of being kind? That boy was so, so dangerous. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd have fallen for his façade like everyone else. But she did know better—she knew _exactly_ who he was.

She washed her face before making her way down.

…

The kids gawked at Hermione after lunch, and Tom paused at the staircase, clenching his fist at the spine of the book in his hand as he overheard Billy Stubbs warn the girl away from him, whispering noxious tales about him into her ear as they stood next to the fireplace.

"He's nothing but trouble, Hermione," the boy felt obligated to tell her. Tom scowled. "You can sleep next to Amy instead. Ask Mrs. Cole."

"Thank you for your concern, Billy, but Tom's been nothing but kind to me." Hermione smirked when she caught the sight of him at the landing. "See? He even found a book for me to read."

The scathing look on Stubbs' face calmed him.

…

The novelty of being the new kid has worn out after ten days, and Hermione looks up from her seat when four adolescents make their way into her and Tom's room. Tom had left minutes before to check for mail.

When Amy's eyes dart from Hermione's face to her bags, she knows they're not here to force her to be friends anymore. They understand she can't be won over that way.

"Show us what you have in there." Eric juts his chin toward her trunks.

"I've seen you wear ten different day dresses, Hermione," Amy says enviously. "Give me a couple and we won't hurt you."

Hermione snorted, turning another page on her book. "Take them all if you like."

Four astounded faces gaped at her. Amy stared at her, "What?"

"Yeah," she shooed them to the direction of her bags. "Take my bags with you. It's fine."

The teens share wide-eyed gazes before tripping over themselves to take her belongings, and when they're halfway out the door, Hermione calls out to Amy.

"Have fun with the dresses." Hermione says nicely. "I hope you like them."

The girl's brows are crumpled, but she forces an awkward smile. "Yeah, Hermione… Thanks."

…

When Tom walks back into the room, of course he notices the disappearance of her trunks. Hermione shrugs and tells him of what had transpired moments before.

"I knew this would happen." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wait here. I'll get them back."

"Nope," Hermione said, holding a finger up and tilting her head. "Wait for it."

"What do you mea—"

A blood-curdling scream emerged from the room next to them.

"There it is. _Now_ we can get them back." Hermione almost sing-songed as she placed her book down onto the small, square table and stood. For a split second, an odd look passed Tom's face and she caught it. Explaining as she pulled the door open, "I had to teach them not to touch my things, you know?"

…

Hermione Granger was a woman, a home-schooled muggle-born witch, and fared well enough in life until one of the airstrikes claimed the lives of her parents. She would be attending Hogwarts as a sixth year.

When Tom finds the muggle foster kids cowering and bawling next to their beds, snot and tears running down their faces, he begins to suspect that, maybe, she was just a good liar like him.

"It's enchanted, you know," Hermione whispered to him like an inside joke. "If someone who's not me opens the bags, a boggart comes right out."

He watched her take out a wand from her dress pocket and she casted with a giggle, " _Riddikulus!_ "

She was in so much trouble now.

…

Later that night, Hermione sighs. "Tom, I can hear your thoughts all the way from up here. Why don't you just ask?"

"The Ministry will arrest you," he says with finality, finally looking up from his writing on the table. "Underaged magic is illegal outside of Hogwarts, Miss Granger."

"Well," she rolls her eyes. "It's good I'm nineteen then. Traced no more."

He frowns. The girl was two years _older_ than him?

"On that note, I'm sure you'd like to go on with the whole—" she gestured around her face. "—persona thing you've got planned. Being kind, gentlemanly and all that, but," Hermione scribbles something on a piece of parchment before she throws it at him. "Maybe it's time to let you know?"

Tom catches it mid-air and reads what she had written. A split second later, he's on his feet, wand drawn at her.

" _Who the fuck are you?_ "

"I'm still Hermione Granger," she tells him. "Let's have a little talk, _Tom._ And for fucks' sake, put your wand down."

* * *

_TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE_

_LORD VOLDEMORT_

* * *

An actual time traveller.

In his room.

"Miss Granger, are you telling me that you're from the future?"

His mind was reeling with ideas.

"Mm-hmm." Hermione hops from top bunk and retrieves her journal from the bed. She sits cross-legged on the room floor and begins to write, quill bobbing up and down frantically. "And before you even get any ideas, I'm not a fanatic, and I'm not here to bring you good news or prophecies."

Tom's mind was still spinning with possibilities and probabilities.

"I'm here because you die, Tom Riddle," Hermione catches his frozen glare briefly before she turns to her journal again. She mutters, "Lord Voldemort dies and loses the war."

His lips twitch. "How?"

"Right now you're planning on horcruxes, aren't you?" Hermione smirks at the miniscule tilt of his lip downward. "One of them backfires on you and you end up killing yourself. It was great."

Tom bristles. "So I just don't make them."

"Yes," the witch murmurs. "Good call."

Tom breathes out reverently, eyes alighting with wonder, "You're here to _help_ me."

Hermione pauses, feather quill stilling. "In a way," she said slowly after a pause. "I'm here to save Tom Riddle. Something along the lines of that."

For the first time in his life, Tom felt like he had something that was his, aside from his magic, that was strong and special and fascinating and _great_.

His fingers twitched at his sides. "And do you have a plan?"

She snorted. "Do _you?_ "

When he hesitated to divulge them, Hermione continued, "Let me enumerate what I think you've done so far. You've found the Chamber of Secrets, unleashed the basilisk on _muggle-borns_ —" she twists the word in her mouth and Tom sneers. "—framed Hagrid for Myrtle's death, and paid a little visit to dear, old dad your first day out of Hogwarts this summer— _Yes_ , Tom, I know what you are—you've started a little clique called the _Knights of Walpurgis_. You're itching to get back to Hogwarts because you want to resume your research on horcruxes. Did I miss anything? No?" Tom's face betrayed nothing and Hermione gestures to the floor across her with a sigh. "Sit, Tom, and hear me out."

Wordlessly, cautiously, Tom takes his seat across, eyes trained on her before dropping his gaze to her writings. Hermione notices and promptly slams her notes shut.

She was a _time traveller._

"What's the point? You'll end up telling me anyway."

"I want to do this one at a time. Where I can run through the consequences of my decisions and make sure we're not all going to die anyway. What would be the point of me going back in time if I make a mistake with one small thing and it ends up ruining everything?"

"And there are a multitude of things we'll need to address to save you pretty little nose," the witch rambled on, leaning back onto the wooden frame of the bed. "Top of my head, right now, we're dirt poor. Well, I mean. Not me. _You're_ dirt p—"

"I get it," Tom hissed.

"You need a way out of this destitution, Tom. Permanently. One that doesn't involve leeching off your little squad of darklings." Hermione pressed. "Because I'm not coming back to Wool's Hellhole. If Mrs. Cole tries to teach me how to be a good woman _one more time—_ " Hermione cut herself off to take slow, deep breaths through her nose. "My point is, Tom: I'm getting out of here. And there's _no way_ I'm not taking you with me. Alright?"

A minute of silence, and Tom blinked. "And your plan?"

"Well," Hermione grimaced. "That's where you come in. What exactly is a booming investment these days?"

…

Tom offers his ideas quietly and Hermione spends the whole night rejecting them. They were on his bed now, each holding their own notebook and jotting down ideas and Hermione almost laughed at the idiocy of it all.

_I'm starting a business with the Dark Lord. All good._

"Why don't you just—"

"Tom, even if I told you what the next great muggle invention was—" _Diet coke._ "—we have no place to make it. No shop to market it. No people to work for us. You're _underage,_ Tom. And do you _really_ want to deal with muggle businesses? Really?"

Tom frowned.

"That's what I thought."

One more hour of brainstorming and they call it a night. They make plans to visit Diagon Alley the next day for Hermione's things.

"You already have your own wand, but you'll also need robes, your own cauldron, books…" Tom ceased from speaking when he saw the witch unconscious on her notes.

_There was a time traveler sleeping in his room._

_And she was here for him._

His glare diminished.

…

The next day, Tom wakes the bushy-haired witch from the future at half-past eight in the morning. She glares at him but he only stares at the indented sleepmarks of crumpled notepages on her cheek as she grumbles under her breath on the way to the bathroom.

Hermione wasn't much of a morning person.

Few minutes later, a cry came from behind the bathroom door, and then some rustling sounds.

Tom knocks on the door. "Miss Granger?"

A sniff.

"Miss Granger. Are you _crying_?" Eugh.

"No, Tom." Another sniff. "I'm stuck."

The door opens slowly, and revealing Hermione sitting on the tiles of the bathroom floor, fingers knotted in the mess of her curls like the quill she had attempted to dislodge.

"I must have slept on it," she grumbled. "I tried to take it out, but I got stuck."

Tom couldn't help it. He started laughing. _This_ was the girl that bested him in the future? "Oh, how the great have fallen."

"Shut up."

"Would you like some assistance?"

"Thank you, but I'd like to perish now."

Tom snorts and makes his way nearer to her. Hermione angles her head to him, and when Tom sinks his fingers into her hair to untangle the quill—

Startled, Tom pulled his hand back.

"Did your hair just _fight_ me?"

Hermione sniffed again, pouting, her eyes downcast. "Maybe."

…

Thirty minutes later, Tom successfully retrieves her fingers and a strangled quill. But not without snipping some strands. They emerge from the bathroom, Hermione moping and sulking.

"I wish I thought to bring Sleekeazy's with me."

Tom places the scissors back under his pillow. "Who?"

"Sleekeazy's," Hermione repeated. "Wonderful, wonderful thing. It's a potion for hai… _Oh!_ "

"Yes?"

"Tom! We're going to be rich!" Hermione was bright and rambling again. "How good are you at brewing? What do you know about _Gomas Bardadensis_?"

Tom gave the slightest tilt of his head.

…

Tom Riddle accompanied her through Diagon Alley and he scoffed at the melancholic look on her face would take at every corner.

"It doesn't look much different," she tells him. "But it is."

He rolls his eyes. "Have you gotten everything?"

"I think so." The girl cross-checked with the list as they walked deeper into the market. "Well, it says I can also bring—"

Hermione's voice drifted away and Tom followed her gaze to the window of a magical menagerie.

"Miss Granger, it's too…" he starts to warn her, but she's already halfway through the door anyway. "…expensive."

Tom sighed.

Tom follows her in anyway and thirty minutes later his eyes are black wheels with how much they've rolled. She's spent thirty minutes cooing at kittens and the shopkeeper is wrapped around her finger, giving her discounts he knows she still can't afford.

After all, she had just spent her pocket money on brand new schoolthings and tailored robes. By now her pockets were almost certainly empty.

He taps his foot impatiently. "Let's go, Miss Granger."

"Tom," she mutters, not taking her eyes off the ugliest cat he'd ever seen. "I had a half-kneazle."

He'd puke from her sentimentality. "Let's—"

"I think I can get us some familiars. Yes?" Hermione turns to him. "Maybe pick out an owl, Tom?"

He narrows his eyes at her. "Owls don't come cheap."

She snorted and pushed him towards the aviary. "Meet me at the counter in fifteen minutes."

He does find an owl—it's the darkest one in the shop, black feathers glistening to a midnight blue in the light. He checks the price tag and almost puts it back.

And then he remembers Hermione had offered to pay and smirks to himself.

…

"Oh, she's so lovely!" Hermione cooed at the bird as the shopkeeper rung the tags of their chosen familiars and their cages.

Tom grimaced at the beast cradled in her arms. "Wish I could say the same for yours."

"Oh, stop it. Here, hold him for me for a while."

She dumps the thing in his arms, and Tom is momentarily ruffled by the onslaught of fur and claws. When the cat—if he could call it that—finally settled down, the bill had been paid and Hermione was cooing again as she took the cat back from him.

Tom eyed at Hermione suspiciously as they made their way out of the shop.

She blinked at him innocently. "Yes?"

"You paid for it."

She raised a brow. "Yes, like I said I would…? Why? Do you not like what you picked out? Tom, we just _paid_ for it, we can't bring it back now—"

He shook his head and swallowed thickly. "No, it's not that."

Tom doesn't look her way again.

Hermione's brows knot together, and she keeps quiet, probably mulling their conversation over in her head. They've made it back to the station when Hermione speaks again, and it's an apology.

"I'm sorry, Tom."

He doesn't know what she could possibly be apologizing for, so he raises a brow at her.

"You wanted to buy your first familiar with your own money. I didn't realize that. So, yeah. Sorry."

Tom takes pity on her. After all, she _did_ pay for the owl. "I quite like the owl, Miss Granger."

"Really?" she insisted. "We're okay then?"

Tom hummed.

The girl beside him let out a sigh of relief. "That's great. What do you reckon you'd name her?"

Tom froze. Hermione panicked again.

"Sorry, did I do something ag—"

"I haven't had anything to name before." The words are past his lips before he can help it.

"Sheesh, Tom, is that all? Name it anything you like!" Hermione sighs in relief again. "I've decided to name mine Oberon."

Tom looked at the cat, beast, monster, thing again. _Oberon_. Bearlike.

"Fitting," he says finally. He tries it on his tongue. "Oberon."

The cat looks up at him from its cage, tail lazily twitching.

…

It takes Tom two days, but Hermione sees a different spark in his eyes when he shakes her awake just to tell her, and she can't find it in herself to get mad.

"I have a name!"

"Yes, you do. Tom."

He glares at her.

"Alright." She throws a glance at the midnight owl perched on the metal frame of the double deck. "Let's hear it."

He clears his throat. "Celeste."

Slowly, Hermione recites it. "…Celeste?"

Tom nods stiffly, eyes still affixed on her reaction.

"Hmm. Celeste." Hermione eyes the obsidian blue owl, nods to herself twice and smiles at him. _Celeste._ Heavenly. "Yes. I like it."

"Well," Tom was already turned away, reaching out a hand to his owl, coaxing it into his arm. "I don't care if you do."

Hermione laughs.

* * *

Notes:

*Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment is brewed using petroleum jelly, Asian dragon hair, and an obscure plant called _Gomas Bardadensis._ In Hermione's original timeline, potioneer Fleamont Potter invented the hair care potion and sold it to the wizarding world which ended up quadrupling the Potter family's wealth.

*Hermione's pillow smelled like musk because it's Tom's scent. They don't have extra pillows at orphanages, for god's sake. He'd placed his own pillow after stealing an newer, thicker pillow from Mrs. Cole's room.

*The Death Eaters used to be called The Knights of Walpurgis.

*Tom doesn't know what's inside Hermione's purse and he isn't opening a thing of hers unless he knows it's not charmed to be anti-theft.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Join our discord server! We're welcome for all fandom writers, readers, and artists! https ://discord .gg/qKjcTRb


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